


Too Much Monkey Business

by Carenejeans



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Humor, M/M, bar stories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-03
Updated: 2010-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-05 17:15:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carenejeans/pseuds/Carenejeans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Duncan's acting like he's been hit with alien sex pollen or something. He hasn't been, but he sure is acting like it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Much Monkey Business

**Author's Note:**

> This story is for Unovis's Bar Story Challenge. The pirates are her fault.  
> Warnings for goofiness  
> Beta-thanks to C.M. Decarnin

Joe set a bottle on the counter in front of Methos and frowned. "Sorry, buddy, but I don't follow," he said. "We're talking about Mac here, right?"

 

Methos looked at the bottle without seeing it, and pointed it at Joe without drinking from it. "But this is different, Joe. He's not the same man. He's--" Methos tried to find the words to explain the strange, relentless and single-minded obsession Duncan had fallen under, and gave up. "I think he's lost his mind," he said finally.

 

"Uh huh." Joe said. "Or you have."

 

Methos bristled a bit, even knowing in Joe's place he'd feel the same way. "You're his Watcher," he said. "Haven't you noticed _anything_ different in the way he's been acting?"

 

"Can't say that I have," Joe said. "But then, I'm not the one he's after."

 

"You'd be running in a hurry if he was," Methos said darkly.

 

Joe made a strange noise in his throat and Methos narrowed his eyes, but Joe just coughed. Methos frowned and took a long drink of the beer and set it down, dissatisfied with it.

 

"Give me whisky," he demanded, still holding onto the beer. He'd come to the bar seeking -- he faced the thought head on -- a refuge. Safety among friends. And not incidentally, a place that was crowded, and public, where Duncan couldn't get at him. "He's been after me all day," he said to Joe. "I can't risk him catching me alone, not... again." He gripped the edge of the bar and leaned forward.

 

"Joe, he is going to kill me." He spoke urgently, the remembered pain of Duncan slamming him against the wall adding conviction to the words.

 

Joe expelled an exasperated sigh. "That's a bit over the top, don't you think?"

 

Methos looked him in the eye. "Joe," he said, trying not to grit his teeth. "How many times have you been fucked in one day?"

 

Joe's eyes widened. He started to say something, stopped, and shrugged. "Depends on how you count it, I guess."

 

"Count like this," Methos said, managing a tight grin. He held up his hands in front of Joe's face, counting off on his fingers.

 

"Once up the ass from the back. Two: tossed on my back and fucked in the mouth like a blow-up doll." He pulled back another finger. "Up the ass again, missionary position, or close enough for government work. I might add that we haven't left the bed yet. And it's not quite dawn."

 

Joe had paled, and was shaking his head. "Just give me the rough count. No need to go into details."

 

Methos smiled without humor and continued counting on his fingers. "Up against the wall. Bent over the kitchen counter. In the shower. On the floor next to the bed. The wall again, and then the bed, with ropes--"

 

"I don't want to hear -- geez, Methos."

 

Methos heard someone behind him snicker and realized he'd raised his voice. He carefully didn't look around to see who was listening. I could tell them stories, he thought bitterly. Of course, they wouldn't believe him. None of _them_ had ever met a man who could get a hard-on, fuck you through the floor, then get it up and come at you again before you could say bugger me backwards. He fought down the irrational urge to stand up in the bar and confess all. _I'm five thousand years old and I can fuck every person in the place before closing! Who's first? Line up!_

 

Maybe he _was_ losing his mind.

 

"And that was just yesterday." Methos propped his elbows on the bar and knuckled his eyes. "Joe, the man is... insatiable."

 

"Well, you didn't think you were setting up shop with a monk, did you?"

 

"He's going to drive me back into a monastery," Methos said sourly.

 

Joe shook his head. "So he's a little more randy than usual."

 

"A little, yes." God, what an understatement.

 

"Why are you telling me this?

 

"You're my bartender." Methos said, pressing his fists against his skull.

 

"I'm your friend too, and there's such a thing as too much information."

 

"Forget it," Methos said. "Just give me the damn whisky."

 

"Sure, sure." Joe poured him a shot, paused, and poured himself a shot. "Whatever's got into Mac, it'll pass, and then you'll be in here complaining about not getting any."

 

"Yeah," Methos said, staring at his glass. Little re-runs were starting to spin out in his head, Duncan standing over him with that wild look in his eyes, with his hands on his hips and his cock standing up; Duncan's bare skin against him and Duncan's mouth on his, Duncan's lips sliding down Methos's throat and down his chest to his cock; coming in the sweet heat of Duncan's mouth and then -- before he could even catch his breath, Duncan rolling him over on his stomach; Duncan's cock pushing into him --

 

\-- and fuck it if he wasn't being ravished and ravaged in his own mind without the damn barbarian even being in the room with him.

 

"Give me a bottle, will you?" Joe handed him the bottle without a word, and Methos took it -- and the glass, for appearance's sake -- and wandered slightly unsteadily over to a table in a dim corner.

 

He'd sat here with Duncan often enough, back when they used to _talk_. Now all he had to do was look at Duncan sideways and he was on his back with his hands pinned over his head. Maybe some sort of synesthesia was going on in Duncan's mind, where, "good morning," translated to "fuck me hard," and "pass the sugar" turned into "push me down on my knees and put your cock in my mouth _now_!" All he knew was one minute he was bending over to pick up a book and the next he was up against -- the _window_, for God's sake. What kind of picture did his bare butt sliding around on the glass make? Anyone could be passing by and craning their neck to stare up at a third-story window. And the glass was _cold_.

 

Methos very carefully poured another shot. A major drawback to being an immortal, he thought, not for the first time in five thousand years, was sobering up almost as fast as you got drunk.

 

Joe was right. It did seem rather petty to complain about getting too much sex, but yesterday was one for the books and today... He'd awakened slowly to the touch of Duncan's lips on his, and he'd been happy enough to let Duncan kiss him into full wakefulness -- and a full hard-on. Duncan had run his warm hands over his slightly chilled morning skin, spreading Methos's arms outward, holding his wrists down and, God, moving his hips in a slow grind, pushing his cock against Methos's until, both grinning like loons, they'd come all over each other in a nice warm sticky mess.

 

He closed his eyes and sighed, remembering. Yes...

 

He hadn't been too surprised when, moments later, they were tangled up together in the shower; he'd lost himself in Duncan's embrace, the warm water running down his back, the heat of Duncan's body against his chest, his thighs, his cock. Methos loved being in the shower with Duncan, loved his skin slick and flushed and gleaming with steam. He loved the way droplets of water would fall from the ends of Duncan's long hair and splash softly on his upturned face when he looked up with a mouth full of Duncan's cock. So he'd stepped out of the shower sated and content.

 

He'd been more surprised -- though after yesterday, not much more -- to find himself up against the wall before he'd even dropped his towel. Duncan had grinned, a bit sheepishly, and made a joke about it -- now driven completely from Methos's mind, but not really funny, he was sure. Duncan had been embarrassed, but it was if he couldn't help himself. Methos had rarely seen that look of desperate need on Duncan's face, and never like this, under that false and uncertain smile -- and certainly not after going at it twice in the previous hour.

 

What was -- well, not _wrong_ \-- what was _going on_ with Duncan? Methos thought back over the past few days, trying to pin down when it first started. Thursday, maybe. It had taken him a while to notice, because Duncan had seemed to ... build up steam, perhaps, and besides, it's hard to diagnose odd behavior when the behavior in question is so pleasurable. So let's say maybe a week before that? Maybe two? He tried to think of something unusual happening in the past month. No strange visitors, no trips, no sudden changes anywhere. Except -- Duncan chasing after yet another immortal who'd come charging out of the blue to challenge Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. An old feud, and old wound, an old passion...

 

Abruptly, he stood, almost knocking over the bottle. Clutching it firmly and weaving slightly, he made his way back to the bar. Joe hesitated, sighed, and came over.

 

"What now?"

 

"Joe, the immortal that showed up last month--"

 

"Ducrocq?"

 

"Right, him." Methos waited patiently for the alcohol to subside in his blood.

 

"What about him?"

 

"'Come on, Joe."

 

"Why are you asking me? Ask Mac. Or hack into the database like you usually do."

 

Methos drummed his fingers on the bar. "Asking you is faster," he said. "Give."

 

Joe shook his head, "Methos--"

 

"Just tell me -- did he have any --" Now he did grind his teeth, "Sexual abnormalities. Odd proclivities?"

 

Joe looked pointedly at Methos. "You mean like satyriasis?"

 

Methos straightened up. "Did he?"

 

Joe leaned towards Methos. "No," he said. "What are you thinking? That Mac took a -- a sex quickening?" Joe let out a small laugh. "Get a grip, will you?"

 

Methos slumped. "Well, it was a theory."

 

Joe clapped him on the shoulder. "Methos, go home," he said.

 

 

\-------------------

 

"Line 'em up," Methos said, draping himself over the bar stool.

 

"So he's still -- ?"

 

"Yes he's still --." Methos picked up the glass Joe set in front of him. "I haven't felt so used since -- did I ever tell you about the time I was kidnapped by the Dread Pirate Rackham and kept in a tent on the Island of San Lorenzo?"

 

Joe looked at him. Methos could almost see the gears of his mind grinding against each other, trying to dredge up some high school geography.

 

"No, you didn't. But I have a feeling I'm going to hear all about it."

 

"I was on a merchant ship bound for the Madagascar," Methos said smoothly. "But we never got there." He paused dramatically.

 

"Because you were attacked by pirates," Joe said. "Just guessing."

 

"Who's telling this story, me or you?" Methos held out his glass. "A drop for the parched throat of the storyteller."

 

"You haven't even started yet," Joe grumbled, but filled his glass.

 

"We were boarded by pirates -- and not just any pirates. Pirates led by the Dread Pirate Rackham." Methos paused again, to admire his alliteration.

 

"Never heard of him," Joe said.

 

"I'm shocked, Joe. Anyway, Rackham took a fancy to me."

 

"Fancy as in adopted you as a son or--"

 

"Or," Methos said.

 

Joe rolled his eyes. "I think you've got sex on the brain."

 

"What can I say? Rackham was a sex fiend. He was worse than MacLeod. He smelled worse, anyway." He tilted his head, thinking. "But then again, so did I. No facilities, really. Until we reached the Island. Of --"

 

"San Lorenzo." Joe said helpfully.

 

"Right. Plenty of facilities there. The ocean, the beach. All that clean sand. Like a litter box for pirates."

 

"Methos--" Joe said warningly.

 

"So Rackham took a fancy to me, and set me up in a tent. Every night he--"

 

Joe grimaced.

 

"-- combed my hair with an ivory comb -- plundered from my own cargo, mind you."

 

"How romantic," Joe said.

 

"It would have been more romantic if he'd had a lighter touch," Methos said.

 

"And... _why_ did you let him keep you in a tent?"

 

"C'mon Joe, I was outnumbered. Thirty badass pirates to one me." He pointed at this chest.

 

"So how did you get away? Or did you just outlive the bastards?"

 

"Well, you see, the odds eventually turned in my favor. The rum ran out, and in the sober light of sobriety, the pirate crew realized their captain was insane. More insane than them, at any rate. They whacked him, and incidentally, me, and sailed off, leaving me stranded... but blissfully alone. Until one day, I saw footprints in the sand..."

 

"Methos!"

 

"But they turned out to be mine. Anyway, all I'm saying is, I haven't felt so thoroughly worked over since living in a tent with a smelly pirate. If I didn't know Duncan was such a Boy Scout, I'd suspect him of piracy in his youth." He sighed. "The island of San Lorenzo would have been much pleasanter with Duncan."

 

"More romantic, I imagine," Joe said acidly.

 

"Much."

 

"None of this is true, is it?"

 

"Why, Joe! Would I lie?"

 

Joe made a face. "Yes. Now get outta here before I start charging you for these drinks."

 

 

\--------

 

 

Methos felt the familiar buzz of an approaching immortal but didn't react. On the barstool next to him, Richie also very carefully didn't react. Joe looked at them both and then at the door, folding his arms across his chest and grinning as Duncan walked through it.

 

"How does he do that?" Richie said. "I could swear I didn't give anything away."

 

"You were so busy not giving anything away I could read you like you were a billboard lit up in neon," Joe said.

 

Methos's eyes flicked towards the door and his chin came up. He sprawled on the barstool and pointed a finger at Joe. "You watch," he said. "He won't be able to keep his hands off me. Don't be surprised if he backs me into the john -- hell, don't be surprised if he tosses me over the bar. Just stand back."

 

"This I gotta see," Joe said. He didn't roll his eyes.

 

Richie made a face. "I don't think _I_ gotta. It was bad enough listening to Methos rant about Mac's... he stuttered to stop and raised both hands as if warding off any more revelation. "I'm outta here."

 

"Stick around, Richie. I want another witness for this." Joe put a bottle of Glenfiddich on the counter, a mischievous gleam in his eye. "A shot for each time he puts his mitts on you."

 

"We'll all be under the table," Methos shot back, then added, "Who's paying?"

 

All three of them watched Duncan make his way through the tables to where his friends sat waiting. He nodded a greeting, and sat on the stool next to Methos, dropping a large bag on the floor next to him. Methos caught the flash of something metallic showing in one corner before Duncan nudged it under the barstool with his foot.

 

Joe put four glasses on the bar and filled them.

 

Duncan drank his whisky slowly, savoring it, not seeming to notice the other two didn't pick up their glasses. He smiled at Methos, and Methos suddenly felt there wasn't enough air in the room.

 

Richie was watching skeptically, and Joe had a small smile at the corners of his mouth. Methos tried to ignore them. He tried to ignore Duncan, too. But one of Duncan's knees touched Methos's thigh. He jumped, then picked up his glass and drained it, not taking his eyes off Duncan.

 

Joe snorted.

 

"What?" Duncan said, finally noticing the others were watching him intently.

 

"Nothing," Joe said, shaking his head and looking at Methos in amusement.

 

Methos just moved his glass across the bar for a refill. Fuck. He was _horny_, and all Duncan had to do was to sit down next to him. The _last_ time Duncan had sat down next to him was etched indelibly in the part of his brain where he usually stored his most outrageous fantasies. He'd looked up from his book to say good morning and found himself on his back under a heat storm in the form of a Highlander. Duncan had flung his book away -- Methos had found it later in the kitchen sink -- grabbed his collar in both hands and ripped his shirt open down the front. He stripped Methos of a pair of tattered sweatpants which were now tattered beyond wearing. He'd already lubed up, the sneak, and was pulling Methos's legs up before he could say, "wait, that always gives me a cramp" and then there was nothing Methos could do but lie back like a pretzel and think of England. Which always brought to mind the Duke of, well, never mind.

 

Methos tried to pull his thoughts together. He was getting hard. And the stupid Scot wasn't even paying attention. He was as cool as a -- a -- cucumber. Methos seethed, imagining himself taking his Ivanhoe and making mincemeat out of innocent vegetables. He waited in tense anticipation for Duncan's hand on him, but he merely gave him a best-buddies smile and started talking to Joe about horse races.

 

Richie was going to laugh. He could see it in his eyes. Methos shoved off his barstool, taking care to swing his knapsack in front of his crotch. "See you later. I've got to go carve a bowl of soup."

 

"What's with him?" he heard Duncan's voice behind him as he stalked away. And Richie snickering.

 

 

\-------------------

 

 

"Just don't say a word," Methos said. He slouched glumly at the bar.

 

Joe laughed. "So he went all one froggy evening on you, eh?"

 

"Michigan J. Frog of the Clan MacFrog. I should bury him under a cornerstone for six hundred years or so," Methos said. "I'd get a rest at least."

 

"So did he jump your poor old bones when you got home?"

 

"_Home_?" Methos banged his beer bottle on the counter for emphasis. "He didn't wait until we got _home_, Joe." Duncan had caught up with him on the street before he'd gone two blocks. "Not when there's a convenient alley nearby."

 

Joe laughed again. Methos glared at him. "Do you want to hear this or not?"

 

"Not really, no," Joe said, but he put his best bartender face in place. "The alley running down towards the docks?"

 

"Right. Filthy place." Methos felt a wisp of excitement in his groin, remembering.

 

"Popular, I hear," Joe said calmly.

 

"Standing room only," Methos said.

 

Joe raised his hands. "Spare me the details," he said hastily.

 

"I should write it up," Methos said. "My life is starting to feel like a porn movie." The alley, especially. He hadn't fucked in an alley since -- God knew when. Never before with Duncan. He hadn't known Duncan _would_ fuck in an alley, and he wished he'd thought of it first.

 

He smiled to himself, which caused Joe to make a face and move down the bar to other customers. Methos forgot the bar, remembering the alley. He'd forgotten what it was like to be mashed up against the wall, someone's cock rubbing against yours, hearing the noises other men made, out there in the dark, getting their cocks polished. Or fucked _very_ thoroughly, from the sound of it. He wasn't sure what kinds of sounds he made against Duncan's sweaty shoulder as Duncan thrust against him, but he didn't care. As for Duncan, he put his hands around both their cocks and seemed to be working them in competition with a guy moving so close by Methos was sure he could reach out and touch him -- and so he did. Things happened fast, and Methos wasn't exactly sure what _did_ happen, but he was suddenly in the midst of far too many arms and legs and cocks and tongues; he'd been pushed around like a rag doll and ended up with asphalt burn.

 

"Mac," he said later, feeling like he should hobble, just for the look of it. Sometimes the healing quickening was just too damn fast. He'd have liked to bear the marks of their encounter in the alley for a while longer.

 

"Hmm?" Duncan sounded like a cat in cream.

 

"Is there anything you want to tell me?" _Are you spiking your cornflakes with Viagra?_

 

"Hm?" Duncan frowned.

 

"Any little thing at all?" Methos's lips were tight; he made himself relax and tried to smile encouragingly. "Something you need to get off --" he winced -- "your chest? Don't look at me like that," he snapped.

 

Duncan stopped grinning, his expression changing to puzzled concern.

 

Methos leaned against a lightpost, glancing around nervously. Lots of pedestrians. Surely Duncan wouldn't--

 

Duncan stepped in close to him, touching his shoulder softly. "Thank you," he said.

 

Methos breathed raggedly.

 

Duncan leaned closer and kissed Methos, his lips just barely touching him. "And you know I love you," he said, smiling and stepping back. As they walked along the street, Duncan hitching up the straps of the bag he carried with him everywhere, Methos clenched his hands in his pockets and tried not to give in to the hysterical laughter bubbling up inside him. Damn the Boy Scout, anyway. _Thank you?_ And did he really think Methos was angling for a declaration of love? Who did Duncan think he was, his wife?

 

 

 

"Earth to Methos," Joe's voice came cutting through Methos's thoughts.

 

"Beer," he said automatically.

 

Joe laughed, and handed him a fresh bottle. "I guess the alley was so terrible you can't bring yourself to talk about it, huh?"

 

"Wipe the smirk off your face or I'll give it to you play-by-play." He took a drink from the bottle. "As soon as I remember it." _He said thank you._ Methos drummed his fingers on the counter.

 

"It's weird, Joe," he said.

 

"Yeah, well, I'm sure you'll live through it."

 

"Where's your bartenderly sympathy?" Methos said, but his mind kept going back to Duncan's odd words. He sprawled back in his chair, thinking. _Why would he say thank you?_

 

For the alley? For putting up with him? What?

 

"Time for some detective work," he said.

 

 

Snooping was what it really was. It had taken a while to find the clue he needed. He watched Duncan. Duncan caught him watching and fucked him senseless. He bided his time. Duncan noticed his mood of quiet anticipation and fucked him senseless. He tried to puzzle out any difference in Duncan's smallest actions. Duncan noticed his scrutiny and... fucked him senseless. And then...

 

 

\-------------------

 

 

"I've got it, Joe."

 

"Yeah?" Joe looked dubious, but settled back comfortably in his chair. It was after-hours, and two of them had been sitting in companionable silence. Methos sprawled across his chair, feeling more relaxed than he had in weeks.

 

"It's the laptop." Methos pushed the empty beer bottle away and stood up. Reaching around the bar, he helped himself to another. Dropping back into his chair, he said, "Now you make some little show of interest --" Joe grunted. "That'll do," he said. "He's got that laptop, he's had it for awhile, says he keeps his books on it, for the Dojo and some personal business." He paused.

 

"Should I grunt again?"

 

"Thank you. Well, the 'personal business' turned out to be very personal indeed."

 

 

\-------------------

 

 

Methos had noticed the laptop; noticed Duncan seemed to carry it everywhere, which was odd if he just kept the books on it. But he hadn't paid much attention to it until one morning -- after escaping after an hour in bed with Duncan wrapped around him -- he'd stepped from the bathroom and surprised Duncan clicking away at it.

 

His cheeks were flushed. His eyes were bright. He was aroused.

 

He was sheepish.

 

"Remember a debit that should have been a credit?" Methos said casually, his mind spinning out ways to distract Duncan away from the damn thing long enough for him to get a good look at his files.

 

He turned to pull open a dresser drawer and felt Duncan move. He straightened.

 

"Methos." Duncan was beside him. Methos shivered at the feel of Duncan's breath against his neck, the touch of Duncan's lips against his skin. He turned.

 

"Look, Duncan--" he began, but his lips were closed by Duncan's, then slowly opened again. Methos braced himself -- the knobs on the dresser were hard -- but Duncan took him tenderly in his arms, and Methos couldn't help but lean in against him, breathing in the warm smell of him as Duncan kissed his way down Methos's cheek to his throat, and lingered there, hardly moving at all, just holding him. Methos let his towel drop to the floor; his cock rose hard between them. Duncan touched him softly, stroking Methos's bare back, while he kissed his cheek, his forehead, his chin, smiling with lazy mischief as he rubbed noses with Methos, making him want Duncan's lips until he was almost frantic with wanting them.

 

"Please --" he said, holding Duncan's face in his hands.

 

Duncan's lips touched his again, and Methos felt lightheaded. Slowly, as if dancing, they moved into the middle of room. Methos ran his hand into Duncan's hair, brushed it back with his fingers, held Duncan's face in his hands and kissed him, returning Duncan's slow kisses with his own urgent ones. But Duncan took his hands, and stilled him, and kissed all of his fingers one by one. Methos closed his eyes and just breathed, until Duncan's hands, still entwined with his own, went round his back, down to his ass, pulled him close. His cock touched the seam of Duncan's jeans, and he came.

 

 

 

"You want some privacy, buddy?" Joe said.

 

Methos snapped back to the present. He held Joe's eyes and smiled until Joe's grin turned embarrassed.

 

"So you found something on the laptop?"

 

Methos rolled the bottom of his beer bottle around in a half-circle. "Pornography."

 

"No!" Joe put his hand over his heart.

 

"Hard to believe, I know." There was a lot of porn on Duncan's laptop; some of it pro, some of it amateur. Methos recognized some of it -- he'd sent it to Duncan. "I mean, porn he's written himself."

 

Now Joe was really surprised. "Duncan writes porn?"

 

"Reams of it," Methos said. Folders filled with orderly files with disorderly names. "Enough to fill a room with printed paper."

 

"Do I want to know about it?"

 

"A lot of it's about me." Methos couldn't keep the smugness from his voice.

 

"I don't want to know about it," Joe said firmly.

 

"The names are changed, the places -- you're in some of them." He grinned at the look on Joe's face. "Your bar, at any rate."

 

"Jeez." Joe rolled his eyes. "Should I install some chandeliers to swing from?"

 

"That... won't be necessary." Methos grinned. "He works with what he's got."

 

Joe looked at him for a long moment, then shook his head, chuckling. "Including you."

 

"Including me."

 

"So... that's why he's been so horny? Or -- hell, Methos," Joe laughed harder, as another thought occurred to him. "Has he been using you to, you know, test out his stuff?"

 

"As a model for his literary forays into smut? Yes." Methos cocked his head back. "Model, muse, crash-test dummy..." He grinned.

 

Joe shook his head. "Why am I even talking to you about this?"

 

"Because you're human, Joe, and humans are incurably nosy about other people's sex lives."

 

"Well, you brought it up."

 

Methos smiled. "Fair enough. Well," he said, stretching contentedly. "I should be off."

 

"It's not late," said Joe. Methos thought he could see a little bit of envy in Joe's eyes. But then again, he could be projecting. It was as if Duncan had given him sex-tinted glasses.

 

"Must get my beauty sleep," Methos said, picking up his bag and walking towards the door. "The life of a muse isn't easy, you know."

 

He smiled to himself as Joe's laughter followed him out the door, and he sauntered down the street, lighthearted, planning, and plotting.

 

\--end--


End file.
